Becoming The Sociopath
by Dark Antid0te
Summary: Teenlock / Johnlock. Contains drug use, violence, abuse and mature content After a past tragedy, Sherlock no longer speaks and is both verbally and physically abused. Having given up hope on any source of friends, John comes as a surprise to him. Will John be able to get Sherlock to talk once more? And will Mycroft finally not have to be the only one who looks out for him?
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi! This Fanfiction is made by two people. I am the one who writes them and throws up my own ideas while Adam creates most of the ideas and plot line, he also edit's my work and you get the point.  
We will try to update once to twice a week, depending on how things go.**_

Now to fix up any confusion, this is a Teenlock story, going from when they're in Year 10, and of course with added Johnlock. We've made that Sherlock cannot speak, well, he can. But chooses not to after a past incident which you'll eventually read about in some sort of a flashback. Everything will be explained, I'm just giving you a heads up if you're ever cunfuzzled. ;P  
We've also made, with that, Mycroft and Sherlock have a rather strong bond and Mycroft can sort of...read Sherlock's facial expressions and body language in an attempt to understand what he's trying to say and he is pretty much the only one able to do this. So if you see any italics, that you'd think would need " ", that's showing what he's trying to give off. If that makes sense.

So, I hope you enjoy the story. Please review, reviews help me in writing 100x. It only takes a few seconds. :) And reviews could mean more chapters more sooner.

* * *

For the third time that day his head was smacked into a locker, white flashed in front of his eyes before he regained his composure, staggering slightly and turning back to face the assailant.

This was fun, just great. Second week of his new school and already being bullied again, bloody fantastic.

Previously at least, he had escapes. He'd just agree with the bully and be on with it, ignore them and stay out of their way. It was a little harder this time round.

"Next time I ask you a question, Holmes, you answer it." The bully said, in his manliest voice. Which wasn't much, considering the guy had hardly hit puberty.

The boy was about his age, 14 - 15 with red hair, an average height, and a solid build. Sherlock believed his name was Tim, which didn't help his image of being high and mighty.

He had a group of friends about him, all the same age, all being in Year 10.

He blinked, seriously not knowing what to do. The halls were empty, the bell had gone for end of school. He could run for it, or simply wait till a motherly, yet irritating brother appeared. Whether or not that was before or after he was beaten was another matter entirly.

"You listening to me?" Tim questioned, beady eye's narrowed.

He tried a nod, adding a little fearful expression on his face to try and make it better, apparently it worked because Tim stepped back, "That's better, but this isn't over." With that, they turned around and saunted off.

As soon as they had rounded the corner, his phone vibrated in his back pocket, taking it out he sighed at the text message.

Where are you? - MH

Why he bothered to text and expect an answer was beyond him. Sherlock pocketed the phone and headed out, feeling a nasty bruise form beside the other two on the back and side of his head.

The hallways were silent and echoey as he passed through them, his usual quiet footsteps loud and reberverating until he finally came to the double doors and pushed them open and continued to walk out into the dimly lit sunny area. Most cars had left, two staff were on gate duty watching the minimal students milling around or waiting by the road for their parents.

He found the spotless, black car to the side almost instantly and strode down the steps to the path, reaching the car and opening the passenger door, slipping in.

The man in the drivers seat was tall, in an expensive black suit with a probably too expensive hair cut and had an air of poshness about him.

"You could at least try to text me back." He spoke, starting up the car.

A stubborn raise of the eyebrow was followed and Sherlock turned to look out the window as they started off.

What for?

"So I can know if you're alright! How am I supposed to know what's going on if you don't reply? Am I just meant to wait for you to show up every single time?"

With a roll of the eyes, a shrug and sigh. The conversation was halted to an end, like always.

The next day, when the skies were grey and the wind was cold, Sherlock was once again on the way to school. Dreading the bordom and the bullies when Mycroft decided to talk again.

"If you're getting harrassed, I _can _do something about it I hope you realise."  
Not in the mood to even give facial expressions, he turned to watch the scenery zip past.  
"Is that how it's going to be?" He sighed, the school appearing in the distance.

No reply was given, but the back of his throat started to hurt and a burning pricked his eyes. Having so much to say yet having no way to go about it was painful.

They rolled up beside the High School and stalled the car, watching the students walking in alone or with friends, calling out to their groups and jogging to class. Sherlock sighed and un buckled his seat belt, grabbing the sling of his bag before opening the door and sliding out.

There was a hesitattion before the black car rolled off, leaving Sherlock to turn and face the day in sudden anxiety.

A light drizzle had begun, slowly forcing students to find shelter. He tightened his grip on the sling of the bag and pulled it over his shoulder, keeping his head down as he headed to the outisde of Science class, trying not to be seen.

Luckily, he was successful and arrived outside the science room, ten minutes before the bell, taking a seat on the bench and dropping his bag he let out a breath of relief. No bullies in this class, just kids that don't care for him. That was good enough.

Sherlock hardly cared if peopled ignored him, atleast they had the mind to tell them that if they didn't understand to just let it go. Ever since Mycroft had a talking to the teachers about his, well, speech predicament, just like last time at his old school, kids had been curious.  
He'd been popular for about a day or two, then people had gotten bored, annoyed or un impressed.

The ones who got annoyed were usually the ones to bully him, or they hadn't been listening, couldn't understand it and just thought he was being rebellious against them. How anyone expected him to get through two or three more years of school was almost outrageous.

Sherlock scowled at the ground in annoyance before feeling someone drop on the seat beside him and say, "Jeez. The weather changed quickly."  
He glanced up and found the rain was thundering down, black clouds now suffocating the sky,until he realised with confusion someone had talked to him.

Risking a look to his right, he found a boy, obviously his age hence he were to be going into the Science class, with an average height, light brown hair cropped short and kind blue eyes.

Sherlock was sure he'd seen this boy occasionally around the place, but only little glances, he believed he hanged out with a group of friends who were part of the rugby team.

The boy noticed his glance and gave a smile, Sherlock quickly looked away, unsure of what to do.

Luckily the bell rang extra early from the rain and gave him an escape, he stood up, grabbed his bag and walked into class, taking the back corner seat next to the window.

Other students started filing in, taking their seats and beginning to chat to their friends while waiting for the teacher. Sherlock secretly kept his eyes on the boy who had talked to him, he sat two rows in front of him, beside the window as well and soon he was joined by two others.

He was surprised the boy hadn't noticed the burning hole in the back of his head from Sherlock's confused and curious stare.

Who the hell would bother to try and start a conversation with him? By now everyone knew not to talk to the so called freak and if you were caught, you'd usually be harrased too like it were some sort of infection.

Narrowing his eye's, Sherlock tried to shrug it off and look out the window, leaning his chin on his hand and watching the rain smash against the pavement.

White lightening could be seen coiling and cracking in the distance followed by a low rumble, smothered against the pitch black clouds. He heard a girl somewhere near him swear fearfuly under her breath, Sherlock rolled his eyes. You'd think by this age you wouldn't be afraid of storms.

The door opened and the teacher, Miss Briggs walked in, apoligised for being late and set onto explaining the task for today's lesson.

He zoned out, he knew it all anyway, but when his ears picked up the word 'partners' his head snapped up.

"This is a simple job, just find a partner and be ready in a minute while I write up the task on the board." Miss Briggs instructed, turning to the whiteboard as students scattered about the classroom, calling for their friends. Sherlock remained sitting, eyes watching caustiously at people who came near him.

Eventually everyone except one person had a partner, Sherlock saw it was the girl who was scared of the lightening earlier before, he sighed into his hand as the teacher turned back to the frsutrated student.

"You don't have a partner?"  
"No."  
"Sherlock is less than a meter from you, just go to him, it's only for a lesson."

The girl scowled, "No way." As ignorant students started to smirk and whisper to their partner.  
"And why not? He's perfectly reasonable as a partner, in fact he's one of the smartest in the class, it'd be easy to work with him."  
Sherlock could have snorted at 'one of the smartest'. But he kept silent.

Another scowl was given, she crossed her arms, "Unfair, everyone else got to work with their friend."

"Oh for gods sakes." Another voice spoke up, it was familiar. A boy, _the _boy stood up, "I'll go with him then, you take Mike." There was an edge to his voice that sounded like he was irritated with the girl yet annoyed with having to swap partners. Wether or not it was an act to not get bullied, Sherlock didn't know. Although it probably wasn't.

He walked up to them and over exaggerated his gestur to the girl, to go over to Mike as he slipped into the seat beside Sherlock and sighed.

She sniffed but walked over anyway and sat down. Miss Briggs shook her head, "Alright, thank you John. Now, you're to be identifying the unknown materials under the microscope, remembering last week's lesson where we went over them."

John, the boy was called John. Sherlock swallowed and looked at him for a moment, utterly confused and conflicted with emotions.

He wanted to say something, thank you maybe, but that would never happen. Sherlock sighed inwardly and allowed John to get up and go over to get the samples, the microscope already sitting on the desk.

The lesson went by far too slowly, with no words spoken except for John saying the answer to each unknown substance, surprisingly getting them all correct. By the end of it Sherlock had come to the conclusion he wasn't talking to him because a. he didn't want to be harrased, he hated Sherlock or b. the same but it was an act.

He decided a.

When the bell for changing classes rang, Sherlock was slightly disappointed, while he didn't yet know if what this John was doing was genuine, it still felt nice, to have someone actually talk to him without it being forced out, a taunt, insult or absolute disgust.

John got up first, and Sherlock thought he saw a slight hesitation but his friends called for him and he grabbed his bag and jogged over to them. Sherlock followed suit a few seconds after, heading to his Maths class.

With the school day finished without too many insults, he was eager to reach the car before Tim's gang found him. As soon as the bell went, he yanked his bag over his shoulder and followed the swarm of students rushing out of English class to freedom. Trying to stay hidden in the mass, he made a bee-line for the pick up and drop off area out of the front.

He started feeling hopeful, just one more building to get around, it didn't last long. He was stupid to think he could get away at least one day without them finding him.

They had stolen his timetable, of course they found him. Sherlock mentally cursed himself as Tim strolled over to him. "Hi freak."  
He stayed silent, starting to block out the world until it was over. missing out pretty much everything that was said until a fist came at him suddenly, striking to the side of his eye.

Stumbling, he hit the wall, raising a hand to inspect the damage, finding a small cut trickling out blood. It hurt. That was pretty much all he could think about, that it hurt. Everything hurt.

Sherlock kept the world and the horrible sounds of the bullies blocked out, waiting it all out they seemed to be smug as well as pissed with him. Sherlock braced himself for another hit.

Feeling the usual vibration of his phone in his pocket made him curse Mycroft mentally, the idiot.

Thank god for him, they backed off, supposedly realising the time and saying some sort of threat before jogging off before they were noticed. Slowly, Sherlock let reality re entrap him once again, his ears ringing and the world rightening itself. He staggered slightly, feeling another buzz of his phone and seeing blood in the corner of his eye. That was one hard punch.

Fumbling, with shaky hands, he pulled out his phone and found the usual message of,

Where are you? - MH

Followed by,

If you don't show up in two minites, I'm coming in. - MH

Grimacing, he pocketed the phone, picked his bag back up which had been thrown off sometime in the incident and stalked towards where Mycroft would be waiting.

He made sure to keep his head down when passing the teachers on duty, as not to bring them aware to the fact he was bleeding on the side of his face and kept walking fast towards the car, opening the door and sliding in without a word.

The car wouldn't go, Sherlock glared hard at whatever was in front of him, struggling to hold it together, he could feel the intense gaze of his older brother on his face.

"What happened this time?" The posh, important-like voice broke through the silence.  
He kept still. Still was good. Mycroft would give up eventually and just drive them home.

This time though, he didn't.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me, in whatever form you can, what's happened. I'm not blind, I can see the blood on your face."

It wasn't his buissness, he could piss off. Sherlock told himself mentally. He wasn't his mother.

"It is my buissness Sherlock, and we both know mother isn't going to help any time soon. I'm the _only _one here for you and it would be wise if you just spoke to me."  
_Damn_, he thought.

He was scratching at the car seat, with a clenched jaw and a now masked face. He just wanted to go home. Why couldn't Mycroft understand this? Now that he's reminded him of Mummy and his unsupportive family, the Incident as they called it. All the bad things in life to lead up to this. It flashed in front of his eyes in an angry heat until it became unbearable. Sherlock opened the car door and got out, grabbing his bag and slamming the door. Mycroft should know what he was doing, since he's apparently so smart, hopefully he'd leave him be, Sherlock thought to himself angrily, starting to stalk away and keeping to the path. He'd walk home, it wasn't too long.

Once he knew he was out of sight, hot tears pricked his eye's and fell down his cheeks. His cheek stung, his mind was an absolute mess, physically and mentally he was exausted. He just wanted to go home, in his room, and sleep, hoping to never wake up until it was all better.

He hated the feeling that jabbed and scratched around in his chest, the hot feeling of guilt and frustration and hopelessness while his stomach was that of butterflies with machine guns. As funny as it sounds, it wasn't.

Turning another corner into an empty alleyway, his knee's buckled and he slid down the wall in defeat and despair, sitting on the damp, cold, bricked ground.

For a few minutes he took the time to get it together as best he could, his eye's looking at his bag in question. Should he or shan't he? _He shouldn't even have reacted like that, it was stupid, he was stronger than this._

But then the bad thoughts came through to over ride that. _You brought yourself to this on your own, with everything, you're an idiot who can't even talk or uphold respect and dignity for yourself._

Sherlock eventually gave up, unzipped the bag with shaky fingers, dug around and found a small box, pulling it out and taking out a small bottle and hypodermic syringe. He adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirt sleeve. Placing the tip of the needle to the vein in aim, he hesitated before thrusting the sharp point home and pressed down the tiny piston. The pain was quickly followed and consumed by relief. Putting the box back in his bag he felt a hell of a lot better.

He didn't remember much, but he knew it wasn't long after he had taken the drug that a black car rolled up, finding the fifteen year old sat on the ground with a content smile and sleeve still rolled up.

Mycroft got out of the car worridly and unimpressed, jogging over to his younger brother and pulling him up. Sherlock stumbled a little, getting used to standing on wobbly knee's, feeling amazing. Mumbling happy things and unable to get rid of the smile.

He was placed into the passenger seat, buckled up and driven home. He vaguly remembered a near to tears Mycroft whispering over and over that he was sorry while taking him to his room once they got home, placing him in bed without being seen by the rest of the family.

After a long time of trying to get Sherlock settled, Mycroft then changed into saying how 'he shouldn't have done that, where the hell he even got the drugs in the first place and it was a stupid thing to do.'

The last thing that was clear in Sherlock's sludgy, drugged mind was Mycroft sighing, head in his hands before standing, taking one last look at him and leaving the room, shutting the door and leaving him in the unlit, dark room on his bed.

But then his mind wandered to that boy, what was his name again? John. That was it. John talked to him, so everything must be OK. He can't be that bad of a person if someone talked to him, plus Mycroft took care of him.

Out of pity you idiot.

Another voice came through, breaking the hopeful thoughts, the good thoughts. _And John didn't want to be your partner, he just wanted the girl to shut up. The only reason he talked to you outside was because he wans't, he was talking to himself, or mistook you for someone else. Now stop being hopeful._

The drug was wearing off and Sherlock began to feel like utter crap again, his eye's closed, blurry with tears.

That wasn't true, he kept trying to tell himself.

Wasn't true.

John _did _talk to him, John cared. John smiled at him.

And that's how Sherlock fell asleep, hanging onto the frail hope that John cared.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sorry for the long wait, for some reason I had trouble writing this chapter. But none the less, here it is and you get a flashback as to why Sherlock doesn't talk. Enjoy and please review :)**_

* * *

Mycroft was reluctant to let him go.

Yet after Sherlock again and again saying, in facial and hand context, he wanted to and he'd be fine, his elder brother finally gave up and drove him to school, saying nothing of the night before in which Sherlock hardly remembered.

But he knew enough.

Mycroft had been able to hide all that had happened from their parents, knowing it wouldn't do Sherlock any good for them to know. He didn't let it on but Sherlock secretly appreciated it.

The morning was icy, pavement and roads still wet from yesterdays rain and a slight chilly wind, pulling up to the school was a little daunting, it took Sherlock a few moments to regain his composer and open the door, taking his bag with him and closing the door behind him, giving a brief wave before continuing on.

Keeping his eye's cast down, he trudged to Maths for a double lesson, feeling deliberate nudges and bumps, finally reaching his destination and dropping his bag beside the bench, sitting down with a sigh.

Already feeling closed in, he regretting coming, of course John didn't like him. Who did? He probably just thought he was someone else when he talked to him. He knew the day was going to be bad, after already being pushed and prodded. Now he wished he had never gotten out of the car, he should have just gone home or not even made a move for the car at all. Stayed in bed, read a book, closed off his mind.

The anxiety attack came on before he knew it, silent screaming for Mycroft to come back.

Well he did have his phone, but Sherlock never used it. Not after..not after that. It was too risky. Maybe if he just called him and hung up, maybe he'd get that as a clue to come get him. He was intelligent wasn't he?

He slowly took out his phone but instead of going to the dialling, he went to a new text message. Fingers seemingly frozen in place, his mind raced as to whether or not he should.

Claustrophobia was sinking in too fast and he felt his hand start to shake. He didn't notice the person take a seat beside him.

But he was startled out of his panic trance to a familiar voice, "Fingers too cold to text? Well I wouldn't be surprised, it is bloody well cold." John joked.

Sherlock's head snapped up to him, a confused expression written on his pale face. John definitely knew who he was talking too, so it wasn't be accident.

"Don't worry, I know you don't talk. Unlike other kids, I actually did listen." He smiled, about to add something when another kids voice broke the wonderful, wonderful moment.

"Oi John, why are you talking to that?" His friend group strolled up and John was clearly uncomfortable with the situation but didn't show it.

Sherlock felt most of their eyes to him, burning its way through his skin and making him feel even worse than before. Instantly, he blocked it all out, retreating into his mind. A new technique he had acquired, pressing his hands together against his lips in a prayer like style, eyes closed. The world now just a silent blur. He focused on random things, equations, naming different chemicals and going over reactions into mixing different ones with each other, names of famous scientists, basically anything to keep his mind occupied. All the while, setting his ears to look out for the bell and nothing else.

It was a little after that he heard that sudden sound, his eye's snapping open, attention on him had vanished, he got up and quickly strode into the classroom, being the first and sitting again at the back.

Students seemed to make sure they were as far away from him as possible, so they didn't have to be partnered with him. John and his mates sat in the row in front of him, Sherlock allowed himself to stare at the back of John's head now and again through the lesson.

It seemed a century before he had English, knowing John was also in that class without his friends. It was the second to last lesson of the day, he basically couldn't wait to go home and never come back., yet the nagging feeling in the back of head said that he wouldn't follow through with that. Just because of this damn John.

When he had taken his seat once again, his mind drifted off, leaving him unknowing of the presence that was now sat beside him. For the first time in a long while he began thinking of how he came to be like this, instantly regretting it but being unable to stop once started.

_It had been a particularly wet day, the pavement flooding with water and the sky drenched in dark clouds. He remembered they were in a hurry to get home, Sherlock hadn't thought much of it even when his brother showed signs of worry. When Mycroft gripped his hand and dragged him through the rain and across the slick path, trying his best to keep the umbrella over each of them as they ran towards the manor._

_He was just soaked and cold and didn't care much, as he just wanted to go home and get warm and dry, so he missed a lot of the facts before it happened. He could have been more alert, more prepared for it. _

_It was when they were past halfway, when the rain had hardened their blows on the ground, loud and blinding. They hadn't heard the sudden car behind them. But they had heard the screech of tires in front of them, smelt the fumes of the car, heat on wet pavement and came to a forced halt, Mycroft had gripped his hand even tighter, his head snapping around for an escape, before Sherlock had even registered what had happened three men had jumped out of the car, from there on, he hadn't seen or heard much. He numbly remembered a blow to the side of the head, a bang followed by a grunt and thud. It was hard to make out with the screeching rain, but he was well aware and remembering of the fact that he had been lying on the ground, stunned and getting absolutely drenched._

_Sherlock had been watching the dark, watery red colour that mixed with the rain, realising it was coming from above his eye's, from his head. Being stunned, it was the only thing he could think about until everything seemed to snap back into life and everything was loud and clear again, the last thing he remembered of that was someone yelling, practically screaming over the rain, Sherlock believed this to be Mycroft, as hearing him apparently say, "Don't hurt him!"_

_And then proceeded to be kicked in the head and blackness covered his vision._

_When he blinked again, allowing dim light to come through and make him wince, he noticed that he was tied to a chair. _Oh great, _He had thought, opening his eyes more and trying to ignore the sharp pain stabbing at the side of his head._

_Once his eye's had adjusted he looked around, it was a large room, warehouse like, barred windows on the far side showing it was still raining and old fans and lights dangling from the ceiling. Mycroft was also near him, a meter away in fact, also in the same "boat" as him, tied to a chair. How lovely. He was awake also and looking at him._

_Sherlock would have said something, asked about what the hell they were doing here, but could never get the words out of his mouth, his tongue had seemed heavy and throat dry and sore. Although his brother _did _say something, "Don't tell them anything, don't piss them off other than not speaking, and don't do anything stupid...Just don't do anything, you understand?"_

_That was all the advice he was given before Mycroft turned silent and looking straight forward, not waiting for an answer._

_Don't speak? Seems easy enough... Don't do anything? Well...He could try._

_It was a long while before their captors came in, Sherlock had no idea who they were and decided a moment after that was probably better than knowing._

_He was slightly concerned that he wasn't quite worried, although it was probably because he was still affected by the blow to the head._

_There were two men who came in, looking tall and superior, their fancy shoes echoing on the crumbling walls, how dramatic. Sherlock would have sneered, but Mycroft told him to do nothing, he tightened his jaw instead. Being thirteen, he probably didn't look much, which just added to his sudden despise towards the men._

_He then expected one of those long, pointless talks from the captors you see in movies, but was instead greeted by the click of a safety and the sight of looking down the barrel of a gun._

_Well this escalated quickly, he thought dryly._

"_I'll make this quick." The guy holding the gun said, "Tell us the location of this Top Secret base and you can go free as long as you keep quiet, if not, well I'm sure I've made that quite clear for you." The urge to talk was torture for Sherlock, he instead swallowed his words._

"_Why on earth would _he _know?" Mycroft asked. "He's your brother, he lives in the same house as you, he is bound to hear things at the dinner table." "You think I talk about Top Secret information at the dinner table?" "Naturally."_

_Sherlock nearly frowned, but kept his face clear of all emotion, he _had _indeed heard of something to do with Top Secret stuff. Whether or not he could remember, he didn't have his hopes up._

_All the while, the thought never occurred to him that he shouldn't even be thinking about telling them anything._

_In his defence, he did have a loaded gun pointed at his skull._

"_He doesn't know anything, point that thing somewhere else." Mycroft snarled, Sherlock visibly relaxed when the gun moved away, but he stiffened again when it landed on his brother. "Well, I didn't actually mean me."_

"_Yes you did."_

_The other man in the room was silent, standing still with his hands clasped behind his back, a handgun was poking out from his side, obviously held by one of his hands. Sherlock caught his eye, meet with a steely glare and quickly focused his attention back to the gunman and Mycroft._

_He'd much prefer it if Mycroft didn't get shot, but then again he didn't want to get shot either. It couldn't be that bad telling them the name of where the base was, what could they possibly do if its protected by the utmost security? _Well, they could be terrorists Sherlock_, the thought nudged its way in causing Sherlock to sigh inwardly._

_And suddenly, just like that, he remembered. He had heard the name once or twice, linked along with Top Secret. Sherlock wanted to say it so badly, just to say it and be done with this, to get out and go home and get warm and dry and be safe. The thought was so tempting, it would be so easy just to say it. One word and be gone with it all._

_Sherlock hadn't really noticed how scared he actually was, how much he tried to swallow it down and ignore it, but it was there all the while, gnawing at him, making him shake and a sweat rise. He was only thirteen after all._

_There had been a conversation going on while Sherlock had been thinking, he only became aware again when he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun once more._

_He flinched._

_His tongue was heavy still, throat dry, heart drumming in his ears, practically leaping out of his throat. Sherlock was panicking, he just wanted to go and the gunman knew this._

"_If you just tell me, I assure you and swear on my life, you can go home." His voice practically a teasing whisper, Sherlock felt Mycrofts hard stare on the side of his face._

_But he told him not to do anything stupid, not to do anything at all. But surely this was okay, they could go home and no one was hurt, like they could do anything if they knew the location anyway? Two, three people up against the British Government and all that was included._

_Sherlock let out a shaky breath as the cold metal of the gun was pressed against his forehead, "One last time boy." "I told you he doesn't know anything, for god sakes!" Mycroft yelled._

_That was a considerable lie, for Sherlock could tell them the exact pin point location of this base now, but he supposed one word was enough._

_His eye's saw the finger on the trigger tighten and with a racing heart and cracking voice he let out the one word._

"_Liverpool."_

_It was quiet, but in the cold and empty warehouse, it echoed and in the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft visibly sag and close his eye's. The gun left his forehead and now a smile was given to him, though it wasn't a very nice one._

"_Good boy."_

_And with that, the butt of the gun smacked into his head once again and he fell unconscious._

_He had awoken for the second time that day, in a dry alleyway with his brother sat in front of him, slumped and clearly not awake yet._

_Pain blurred his vision and poked and prodded his head and face, but he managed to take out his phone to check the date and time, a little confused._

_It was in fact the next day, 11:46 AM. In that moment, Mycroft decided to stir, Sherlock looked up fearfully, his stomach dropping at the sudden intense glare that rendered him speechless._

_He was guilty, of course he was, but he had just wanted to go, not be killed, couldn't anyone understand that? He was confused and in pain, he didn't want this._

_Mycroft said nothing to him as he lead the way home once they were able to stand._

_It was only two weeks later, when the two of them had been in the manor's library reading silently that Mycroft's phone went off._

_The expression that went with reading that made Sherlock want to run and hide, Mycroft looked up, looking straight at Sherlock and raised his phone for him to see._

_He didn't read all of it, just one sentence that told him all he needed to know before Mycroft spat out the words, "Good job." And stormed out, slamming the door and proceeding to tell the parents in disgust._

_The base in Liverpool, having over five hundred people working there along with absolute important content, had been bombed leaving no survivors._

_It wasn't on the news or in the papers, it wasn't known to the public, hardly an usher was spoken through the world of the happening. The bombing had been done in a highly remote area, there was no need to scare the public if this was clearly a one off attack._

_But all the while...Sherlock stopped talking, fretting he would say something else. Stopped texting, stopped any form of communication until months after when Mycroft came back into his life when no one else would. It had been out of pity..._

_He should have ended himself then, saved himself the suffering. _

The taste of lead hung at the back of his throat as he blinked back into reality, he had been chewing a pencil, no one paying any notice as quiet chatter filled the room along with the sound of pens and pencils on paper.

"Hungry, are we?" John joked. John? John!

John was sitting next to him, looking at him in amusement.

Sherlock blinked again and looked at John, the pencil now on the desk and forgotten.

"You've been doing that for a while, you look a little pale, you alright?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's face, unsure of what to do, he opened his mouth slightly before frustratedly shutting it, his brow furrowed and he looked away.

"Hey no worries, I just wanted to say, if you, ah, wanted to have someone to talk to, well, someone to be with. A friend, I'm here. Just don't tell that to my friends." He winked. Sherlock looked back at John, had he heard correctly? John was offering to be a friend?

But then the bell went and John sighed, "Sorry, gotta dash." And left.

He looked down at his bag, taking hold of it and making his way out of the classroom, taking his time and looking at the ground.

Being alive was so conflicting, is it always like this? He wondered.


	3. Chapter 3

**_To the guest who asked: Can Sherlock talk, and if so why doesn't he?  
Chapter 2 explained that..._**

**_When he was younger he let out information that killed hundreds of people and destroyed a base, etc. Since then, he doesn't speak because he's too afraid, as if he'll let out something else.  
And now that his family hates him, he vowed never to talk in case._**

There was a burst of light and Sherlock suddenly sat up in bed, eye's wild. His breathing was erratic , goosebumps and shivers sweeping his flesh and sweat making his clothes stick to his skin.

Gathering himself, his eye's adjusted to the darkness in his room, noting that the bed covers had been kicked off the bed and his throat was dry and raw, confirming his suspicions of screaming.

While trying to get his heart under control, he placed his head in his hands, gripping his curls and trying to forget about his nightmare, thinking about something that made him happy, yet the terrifying images kept slicing its way back in.

His eyes and face felt hot and puffy, _so I've been crying, _He thought in distaste. He hated crying, in fact he hated anything that allowed so much emotion to show.

Finally trusting his limbs to work, he slowly got out of bed and stood, legs wobbling slightly and flicked on the light, squinting at the sudden brightness.

The time showed 6 AM, his window didn't look too frosty, the pavement was clearly wet but not too much fog. Sherlock considering going out for a run, clearing his head instead of the alternative, he didn't need to be taking drugs when his family was home.

He decided he'd go out, hit the forest trails outside the manor where it'd be silent and empty.

Not bothering to leave a note, he pulled on a grey shirt and black track-pants before switching off his light and padding out into the deserted, long hallway. Reaching the stairs, he took two at a time and passed through the long and wide rooms till he found the front door. Opening it and stepping out, the chill bit his bare skin, though it wasn't too bad. Once he got started he knew he'd be fine.

Closing the door silently behind him he set off, the ground was cold beneath his bare feet. Preferring to run bare foot, he supposed this made him just that little bit weirder, he didn't care.

His pace was strong and fast, well practised and easy, since before drugs this was his only escape, he'd go day by day, sometimes twice a day. He'd do reps, bring a watch and keep trying to get faster and faster, like an obsession, for hours until he was buckling at the knee's and burning up.

His breathing pace matched that of his steps, light and swift, the forest in view, snuggled against the back of the manor and stretching on for a few kilometres. Knowing it like the back of his hand, Sherlock took the longest track, hoping that'd be enough to wipe the remaining cobwebs from his mind.

He had slid into a smooth rhythm, eyes half closed, hands numb when he heard other footsteps, slowing he looked up and crashed into another person, hitting the dirt. A thump told him the same happened to the other person. Sherlock was first on his feet, ready to flee when he noticed with a shock the other person was in fact John.

John looked up, a little dazed, earphones fallen out. Which was probably what led him to crashing into Sherlock upon not hearing him and looking at the ground.

He was definitely dressed for the cold, with a hoody, track-pants and sneakers. _It's not that cold is it? _Sherlock thought to himself.

Sheepishly looking down at him, he hesitantly held out a hand for John to take, who smiled gratefully and took it, pulling himself up.

"Sorry about that, I wasn't looking out for anyone, didn't expect to find anyone here to be honest. But I suppose that's the same for you?"  
Not knowing what else to do, he simply nodded.

John frowned as he looked down, "Aren't your feet cold?"  
Sherlock followed his look and raised an eyebrow, his feet looked pale, but then he always looked pale. The toes were a little pink, so where his hands. He shrugged and looked back at John.

John pocketed his iPod and pulled down his hoody, stuffing his numb hands in the pockets, "So I'm guessing you live here, well, not _here, _but in the manor, since its named Holmes Manor."  
Realising he was trying to pick up a conversation, Sherlock was a little lost for what to do, after a moment he cleared his throat and nodded.  
John grinned and glanced about, "Its pretty cool, wish I lived in a place that big.."  
For a moment he imaged he was talking to Mycroft and cocked his head in a manner of a question, surprisingly John seemed to understand. "I live a few streets down, I come here occasionally after I found it once by accident." He trailed off a little as if remembering something, "Its a nice place."

There was a rustle in the bushes next to him and Sherlock jumped a little, head snapping to it only to find it was a bird and narrowed his eyes sheepishly.  
John instead laughed, "You're like a cat."  
He replied by frowning in an amused way, the bird trotting over to them and standing on Sherlock's foot, who went rigid, glaring down at it.

"Friendly bird."  
Sherlock tried to shoo it away, kicking his free foot at it without hitting it, eventually it took flight and went off.

A very light, dawn sun flickered through the tree's, it wasn't warm but it gave a little more light than what already was.

John walked over a little, looking like he was considering something. Sherlock looked at him, fighting the natural urge to take a step back and bolt. _He's not going to hurt me, get over yourself. _His mind snapped.

The teenager then looked at him, "I uh, I sorta wanted to apologise for my friends and well, everyone else who give you trouble. To be honest, I don't understand why they do it. You're a smart kid who doesn't talk, so what, I suppose? From the few moments I've known you, I can tell you're probably quite a good person."  
Sherlock was taken aback by the sudden speech and blinked a few times.  
John noticed this and frowned at an invisible enemy, it seemed, before saying, "See that's what I mean, you're not used to praise or kindness at all. Its horrible."

He continued, "I'd sit with you, you know. I'd hang out with you but I'm an idiot and can't seem to detach myself from my group. They're my friends all the same, they can just be absolute shit heads when they want to be. So its a little hard, I'll try and talk them round."

Sherlock smiled a little, feeling that was what he was meant to do, apparently he was correct because John beamed back.

"Did you want to find a spot to chill? Well, sit and chat. I've still got two hours."  
A little rise a panic attacked his chest, what was he meant to do in this? He'd never really "chilled" with someone before. He could trust John though couldn't he?  
He bit his lip.

"You don't have to!" John said, raising his hands, "Don't worry."  
Sherlock shook his head, deciding he would. He opened his mouth but closed it in frustration, he knew a good place to sit, where he always went.

He slightly turned his body in the direction behind him and John pointed, "You know a place?"

Again surprised at his ability to know what he was trying to say, he nodded and was about to turn when John spoke up again, "Did you wanna run there? Get warm again, its a little cold. Okay maybe not for you...Spock, but still." He joked.

Flashing a grin, Sherlock nodded again and set off on a fast pace, John caught up, running just a step behind, Sherlock suddenly veered off the track into the woodland, avoiding thistles and splinters on the ground he took a fallen tree with a smooth trunk and continued running along it till the grass looked damp and soft and jumping off, not lessening his pace.

Ducking under low branches he pushed on, hearing John not far behind, until Sherlock came to a stop. Looking up and snapping his head to certain spots, figuring about where he was, finding it and bolting off again, a dip was up ahead and he ducked under the overhang covering it and bounding down, taking one more turn into a clearing and coming to a halt.

John appeared a few moments after, puffing, "Well..that was interesting." He coughed and leaned on his knees till he got his breath back while Sherlock walked over to a bush, crouched down and reached his arm underneath it before pulling out a dry, woollen blanket and came back over, placing it down.

The clearing consisted of dry, lush grass with a river that gurgled into a pond like shape before curling out the other side of the clearing. Dense woodland crowded the outside and a thick canopy closed overhead, letting only splinters of sunlight in and hardly a noise.

Once John had his breath back, he admired the place, looking around in slight awe and coming over to join Sherlock sitting on the blanket. "Nice place."

He smiled in reply and brushed out his hair with his hands, getting rid of anything that may have caught on while he was running.

"So, what do you usually do on weekends?" John started a conversation.  
Sherlock shrugged and gestured with his head to the clearing.  
"You never go out with anyone? Watch a footy game or play a sport, meet up with friends?"  
He shook his head.

The other boy frowned, "Do you have _any _friends?"  
Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"You have a friend. But do you have friend_s_?"  
Another shake of the head was given.

John's frown deepened, "That's a shame."

* * *

It was the next day that Sherlock was sat on the blanket in the clearing again, the day before they had decided to meet up again, John said he was going to bring something and show him what he was missing out on.

Upon hearing a rustle, he stood up and looked behind him, to find nothing, frowning he turned around to check the other side and felt something hit him in the back, a triumphant laugh was heard and suddenly he had tumbled into the slow flowing river with a yelp.

The water was freezing and Sherlock broke the surface quickly, gasping and glaring at his attacker, who was a proud looking John holding a football.

Wading to the edge, Sherlock pulled himself out and continued glaring at John, who then proceeded to crack up laughing, it took only a moment, but eventually it proved to be infectious and Sherlock joined in. He hadn't laughed for ages. Years maybe.

When they had stopped, John wiped tears from his eyes and looked back up, "You better get the water out of that before you freeze to death." He said, pointing to his shirt.

Sherlock hesitated, making sure his back and left side wasn't facing him before whipping it off and wringing it out till he was satisfied and pulling it back on, John came over, ball in hand.

"This is a football Sherlock." He said as if talking to a three year old.  
Sherlock sighed and narrowed his eyes at John, who threw back a smug look.

"Ever played football, Sherly?"  
Ignoring the name he gave, Sherlock shook his head, looking at the black and white ball in wonder, He'd heard of it, sure. Seen it on the T.V. when he was flicking but never really knew what it was.

John grinned, "You're more of a runner type, but I bet you'd be good at football too. Would you like me to teach you?"

There was the sudden realisation that hit Sherlock after he heard that. He had a friend.

_My god I have a friend. What's Mycroft going to say? Would he be happy?_

Reflecting the events of the weekend, he noted how open he'd actually been with John, he liked John, he really did.

_What do friends do?_

He'd have to study that.

Sherlock nodded.

* * *

The days went by, after school they'd meet up at the clearing and John would teach Sherlock the ways of football, after about an hour they would sit down and John would try to get to know Sherlock more.

Mycroft had noticed Sherlock's good moods and became suspicious, school was still the same. With bullies and crappy classes, although John would talk to him any chance he got without being seen, saying he was still trying to suck up the courage to stand up to his friends. There were still the occasional beatings but once he got to the car there was the rush to get home like an excited six year old.

It was a Thursday when Sherlock received a text from his brother while waiting for John to show up,

_I'm happy for you, now don't be an idiot and let John go. - MH_

Sherlock had rolled his eyes and stuffed the pone back into his pocket just as a football whizzed past his head.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Two chapters in 1 day! Yay!**_

_**Thanks so much to the reviews, please keep the coming, they help me loads.**_

It was a week later, after a day that didn't end entirely well, when John invited Sherlock to come over to his place and grab a coffee or tea on the way.

John had asked him this while Sherlock held a tissue to a bleeding cut on his lip, standing outside the gates and waiting for Mycroft who seemed to be late.

It took him by surprise, he'd never been invited to someone's place before, well, he'd never been invited to anything except stupid family dinners which he was no longer welcome to anyway.

How would his family react to him? Sherlock started worrying and as if reading his read John added, "Don't worry about my family, Harry will be out, my dad's inter state for work and my mum's quite nice."  
After a moment, Sherlock nodded in agreement, wondering how he'd tell Mycroft who clearly wasn't showing up.

A second later, his phone buzzed in his pocket, Sherlock took it out and scowled at the message,

_I know, now go off with him – MH_

Of course he bloody damn well knew, he muttered in his head and shoved his phone back in turning to let John lead the way.

He saw how John deliberately kept away from the throng of crowds and took the back way as not to be seen, Sherlock wondered whether he should feel hurt by this. He came to the conclusion that he had no idea what to feel about it.

They starting walking on the street path, now away from the school, John started chatting.

"I have a football game this weekend, it'd be cool if you could come and watch."  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, falling into step with John, who noted his confusion, "All you have to do is sit somewhere in the crowd and watch, by doing so you support me, whether or not you cheer."

Not seeing anything else he'd do on the weekend, he shrugged and nodded.

John grinned, "Great! Hey, you're getting pretty good at football too, I knew you would."  
Sherlock snorted in laughter, not believing him.  
"You _are_. Now come on, we're here." He elbowed Sherlock and skipped stupidly up to the Cafe door and walked in, Sherlock following and rolling his eyes.

The door chimed as they opened it, the Cafe inside warm and musky with the scent of hot chocolate, coffee and cookies. John lead the way up to the counter, looking at Sherlock, "Tea? Hot Chocolate, Coffee?" He got a nod at coffee and turned back to order.

They were told about five minutes and took a seat in the corner.

"What I said before, you _are _good at football. It'd be epic if later on you could join my club." John started up again, looking across the table to Sherlock, who had no idea what he meant.  
He sighed good humouredly and said, "A club, football club. Where you're with others in a team and you have practise sessions and games usually on weekends against other teams, clubs."  
Sherlock shrugged, in a way of saying 'maybe'.

John smiled, opened his mouth to say something when they were interrupted by two girls their age coming over.

_Oh joy..._

"Hey." The one closest to Sherlock said, he sniffed in distaste.  
John looked like he was struggling to keep a straight face at his friends reaction as he turned to them, "Hi there."  
"I'm Sarah, this is Jamie, did you want hang out some time?" The other asked.  
"What were you thinking?" John continued the conversation and Sherlock threw a glare at him.  
"Movies?" Sarah suggested.  
"Dull, boring, predictable. I don't know or like you, shoo away now." Sherlock waved a hand at them to leave before boredly resting his chin on his hand.

The three of them stared at him and he suddenly realised what he just did, he raised his head and stared back at John who was grinning at him.  
The girls then turned and stalked off, "And to think I thought he was hot." Sarah glared mutinously back to which Sherlock gave a fake smile.

"You talked." John said.  
Sherlock looked at him and swallowed, nodding.  
"Oh come on, you can't talk anymore?" He sulked.  
A shrug was given in reply as a waitress came to give them their orders, a coffee and tea.

Sherlock cautiously sipped it as John rambled on, "Now I'm thinking that I could have caused that, with what you not talking and suddenly you get a friend and you start feeling better and bam, you talk."  
He rolled his eyes, _Whatever floats your boat._

"Oi, don't give me that." John laughed.

Sherlock didn't know he was shaking till he picked up his coffee cup again, he quickly put it back down and curled his hands into fists, willing himself to calm down.

_You just spoke, its been two years and you just bloody spoke. What's wrong with you? What happened to your vow never to speak again? You got over five hundred people blown up, you don't deserve to be able to talk again, you're a murderer._

Then it all got too much and he quickly stood up and ran out, he heard John calling out to him desperately but Sherlock kicked up the speed he had obsessively trained over and sprinted at full pelt down the street, hearing John far back after him.

He ducked into an alley way and climbed the ladder to the roof, running along and jumping across to the next and the next before sliding down the railing, over a fence and continuing on.

Running along the back way to home, he knew he had lost John and arrived home ten minutes later, opening the door and jogging up to his room without being seen, he heard the T.V. on somewhere in the house.

Once he reached his room, he shut and locked his door behind him, flicking on the light and sliding down the door, head in his hands.

His body shook with dry sobs until he gathered himself, crawling to his bed and reaching underneath for the flimsy floorboard, pulling it up and taking out the box inside, standing and sitting on his bed.

Sherlock opened the box and began the routine, injecting the drug before lying down on the bed, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders.  
Everything looked so different and interesting, he found himself staring at the fan above him for a while until the drug wore out. It was a half hour after till he sat up again and began packing away the evidence.

He then heard the door being unlocked and couldn't hide it in time for Mycroft to step in and freeze.  
"...What are you doing." It was more a cold statement than a question.

Not waiting for a reply, Mycroft quickly rushed over and grabbed it from his hands, "You idiot, you're lucky you took this ages ago, father wanted to talk to you."  
Sherlock was tired and felt a little itchy, he didn't really want to talk to dad at all.

But then footsteps were heard coming up the hallway and Mycroft swore, trying to stuff the rest of the contents into the box and shoving it under the bed before standing up just as their father appeared in the doorway.

"Son, _Sherlock_. I needed to-" Siger Holmes stopped midway in his sentence as his piercing eyes landed on the black box partly sticking out from under the bed. Deducing himself what it contained.  
Mycroft swore under his breath and Sherlock's heart seemed to explode in terror, his limbs wouldn't work.  
Slowly, he looked up at his father only to be grabbed by the collar and yanked out of his room, slammed into the opposite wall, lights flashed before his eyes and pain shredded the back of his head.

"Why the hell do you have drugs under your bed?" The grip on his collar tightened, his knuckles digging into Sherlock's neck, choking him.

His hands gripped onto his fathers, desperately trying to get free. He was an idiot, taking the drug at home where his _abusive father _was.

He was slammed into the wall again, much harder this time, he felt warmness on the back of his head and his vision seemed to shatter and sluggishly repair itself. "Well?!"

Sherlock couldn't breathe now, he was choking, he saw Mycroft appear by his father, "You're killing him."  
"He deserves it."  
"_Dad_."  
"He got over five hundred people killed. Now he's doing drugs, he's a failure."  
"Father, stop it. _Now_."  
He looked at the son next to him with narrowed eyes before looking back at Sherlock, his grip loosened, a fist swung it and copped him on the side of the face, he hit the floor in a stunned daze.

He vaguely saw the boots of his father walking off and then Mycroft down on his knees next to him, "Sherlock? Sherlock are you alright?"

Instead of replying, he closed his eyes and curled up, trying to hide away. A hand was on his hair, softly stroking it before he felt hands lifting him and carrying him with a struggle, into his room and onto his bed.

He heard him walk into the en suite before coming back over, pressing a wet cloth to the gash on the back of his head, Sherlock hissed and flinched in pain.  
Mycroft continued to clean it before putting on disinfectant and finishing the job off by bandaging it. His brother moved to the cut on his cheekbone from his fathers hard punch and cleaned, disinfected it and placed two sterri strips on each end of the cut.

"You need to be more careful Sherlock..." He murmured, working his way down to cut on his lip and doing the same as before. "You knew what could have happened."

Sherlock continued to be still with his eyes closed, he felt the raging bruises on his neck which were probably a dark purple and red by now. His head swam, his cuts stung like mad and his throat still felt painfully constricted.

Mycroft sighed, ruffling Sherlock's hair before getting up to walk out, Sherlock snapped out a hand and gripped onto his wrist, he opened his eyes and looked pleadingly at his older brother who sighed again and shut the door, flicking off the light and coming over. Knowing what _that _lookmeant when he had to do this when Sherlock was much younger and afraid of storms.

Kicking off his shoes and taking off his suit jacket, he slipped into the bed with Sherlock and allowed the near fifteen year old cuddle into his chest for comfort. Mycroft wrapped his arms around the younger boy and rested his head beside Sherlock's, watching the door in silent vigil.

Soon Sherlock had relaxed and was asleep in Mycroft's arms, it was only then did Mycroft allow emotion to over take him and a tear slipped down his cheek and landed in his brothers dark curls.

Morning came and Mycroft was the first to awaken, scolding himself from falling asleep. He looked down to the still sleeping and content form of Sherlock. The clock showed 10:24 AM, being late for school but then shrugged it off knowing Sherlock wouldn't have gone to school anyway, nor would Mycroft have let him.

His eyes flicked over his brothers face, the bruises he had been sporting had calmed down, leaving still purple marks but not as noticeable. The cuts had stopped bleeding altogether though leaving a little dried blood here and there.

Mycroft moved his arm to gently pull up the white sleeve of Sherlock's shirt and found with a sick stomach many past and recent puncture scar marks from a needle. Rolling it back down, he replaced his arm and closed his eyes.

The silence was interrupted to the door being slammed open, Sherlock jumped and instantly sat up, terrified and confused as Mycroft got up. Their father stood in the doorway, "You're late for school, you useless idiot. You can continue being useless or you can actually do something for once and get your ass to where you're supposed to be."  
Siger Holmes took a step towards the bed which caused Sherlock to flinch and bolt out of bed, Mycroft frowned, "You can't expect him to go to school looking like that?"  
"It's his own fault."  
"No, its your fault he's like that." Mycroft retorted, glaring.  
"Oh really?" His fathers voice turned dangerously low.  
"Mycroft..." Sherlock whispered, willing him to stop. Not realising he had just talked again.  
"You tried to kill him!" He yelled back, ignoring his brother.

The older man glared at him before looking at Sherlock who quickly grabbed his school bag and stuffed the textbooks he'd need for the day. His father then left, Mycroft turned to Sherlock, "You spoke."  
He didn't reply, just zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.  
"You're not going to school like that Sherlock. I won't allow it."  
He shook his head and tried to push past him, Mycroft stopped him.  
"He can't do anything to me Sherlock, I'm the most successful person in the family at the moment now that he's retired. He wouldn't risk damaging that."  
Sherlock swallowed and hugged his brother, taking him by surprise, clinging on for a few moments before pulling away, "Thank you." He forced out and walked quickly from the room, taking out his phone and texting Mycroft,

_Forest – SH_

Pocketing the phone he continued down the hallway, that was the furthest he had gone for ages, he planned it to be one off and hoping his brother understood what he meant.

Of course he did, what was he thinking? He was Mycroft.

His phone buzzed,

_Stay safe – MH_

Sherlock passed his father on the way out, a hard glare was given to him, it looked like he was going to do something but Mycroft was at the bottom of the stair case, watching him with narrowed eyes.

Swallowing thickly, he left the room and went to the front door, walking out and closing it behind him before heading off in the direction of the forest, which he'd stay for the day. Read a few textbooks to keep his mind of things.

He didn't expect anything to happen by heading to the little clearing he always went to, he didn't expect anything at all.


	5. Chapter 5

It was when Sherlock had started to pack up and slowly head back to the manor when he heard a distant rustle, his head perked up in confusion. Silence greeted his ears, after a moment he shrugged it off and zipped up his bag, standing and slinging it over his shoulder.

Then he heard it again, along with voices he couldn't make out but there was more than one person, and the only person who knew about this was John and Mycroft...

The footsteps got louder, the voices went a little quiet as if they were trying to be stealthy and then a group of kids he knew from school appeared through the bushes, his stomach dropped.

John was among them, it was _his _group of friends. Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment then the group slowly started up, "Oi freak!" One called, and that was enough for Sherlock to bolt, he crashed through the bushes till he was free from the dense woodland and ran full pelt through the trees, hearing them give chase.

Why was John there? Why did John bring them there? His mind kept racing, a new thought with each step, the grass changed into dirt and he pressed on, the others close behind.

He felt a hand grip the handle on his bag and he was pulled back, quickly he yanked his arms out of the slings and kept running only to be met with another kid that pushed him hard into the tree next to him, his head cracked against the sharp bark, reopening the wound.

He cried out and hit the ground, a sharp kick was booted into his side, it felt like his ribs were splintering.

Sherlock heard the rest of them come to a halt.  
John's voice, "Guys-"  
He was told harshly, to shut up. Another kick, harder this time, was sent to Sherlock's stomach, he was out of breath.

His vision was blurry, but he could make out that he was close to the end of the woodland, if he had just run faster...Another kick shattered his thoughts. He began coughing up blood, felt the back of his head sticky and wet with it.

"Guys that's enough." John pleaded.  
"I told you to shut up."

Sherlock then saw his phone an arm length away, he tried moving a little but he had to hold back a cry of pain, his ribs killed.

The group then seemed to be discussing something, he tried to reach out an arm while they were distracted, his fingers touching the phone just as it vibrated with a message.

A kick came in again, he quickly grabbed the ankle and pushed it away, trying to get up but his hair was grabbed and a knee struck his face. Sherlock hit the ground again, on his back, blood gushing from his nose, his head swam.

One of the boys, with black hair, bent down to pick up the now gritty phone and showed the message to everyone,

_Where are you Sherlock? Why aren't you home yet? - MH_

"Guys I think we should go, whoever sent that would come looking..." John tried again, this time they listened, considering it and looking down at the crumpled, bleeding form.  
"You think we went a bit too far?" Someone said.  
"Nah, he deserved it for what he did to John."  
_What did I do to John? _Sherlock sluggishly thought.

They turned and started walking off, his phone was dropped back in the dirt.

John hesitated and looked back, his face showed that he was sorry, Sherlock blinked at him until the world turned hazy, when it cleared, he was gone.

Slowly, he turned his head to his bag which was beside him, the perfect idea popped into his mind, he painfully unzipped it, trying to find what he was looking for.

Finding it, he pulled it out, hands shaking and opened it before pulling out the syringe, all he had to do was OD after all and it should be over. He didn't need daily abuse at home, he didn't need daily abuse outside of home, he didn't need the pain any more.

Readying the syringe, he placed it on top of the vein, waiting for any second thoughts, but none came.

Pushing it in, he pushed down the plunger, relief wiping off the pain. Sherlock dropped it and his eyes slid closed, feeling a little sick.

His body began convulsing.

Bright lights met his eyes as he awakened, he vaguely heard beeping and felt quite uncomfortable and in simple terms, absolutely shit.

Sherlock blinked until he got used to the light, seeing white walls and a white ceiling with pale blue curtains. There was a door to the left, far side and the floor was carpeted with dark grey.

His ears popped and the world rushed in, a heart monitor was beside him, connected by a clip to his index finger, IV tubes in his hands and arms, an oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose.

He was obviously in a hospital, so it hadn't worked.

"Sherlock." A voice to his left.  
Very slowly he turned his head, dots sprung his eyes and his head crackled. A pained groan escaped his lips and he closed his eyes.  
A hand went to his hair, with practised ease at calming. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Nodding slightly, he tried opening his eyes again.

"You over dosed Sherlock, seemingly after you were beaten. I know you knew what you were doing. I was the one that found you, after being visited by John."  
It took a while for his mind to grab each word and string them together, two minutes passed and Sherlock closed his eyes again.

A nurse walked in, he heard her footsteps come over to the bed, "How are we feeling Mr Holmes?"  
Another few seconds and then he grunted slightly in reply, sounding like a "crap".  
She began checking him over before asking, "Do you want some water?"  
He gave her a nod and the mask was removed, a straw was given and he hadn't realised how thirsty he was until he downed the whole cup.

"Do you need anything else, Mr Holmes?" She kindly asked, he shook his head and she moved to go off. Mycroft followed her to the door and hushed words were exchanged. He came back and sat beside Sherlock, a hand on his own, rubbing soothing circles.

"Mummy had a little fright, she'll be alright. Father, well, he's not needed to be mentioned now is he?" Mycroft informed him, dragging his chair closer to the bed.

The hand moved back up to his head, lingering beside the punch mark before working on his curls for comfort, he felt sleep start to come over him and Sherlock turned, nuzzling his face into the hand, warm tendrils pulling him back into a deep sleep.

Voices brought him back to the world, Sherlock's body ached badly and he groaned as he opened his eyes, feeling a little better than before.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Mycroft asked, coming back over, moving his brothers hair out of his face with was slightly beaded with sweat.

A nod was given in reply and another man came forward, he was shorter than Mycroft, with silver hair and a brown coat.

"This is D.I. Lestrade, Sherlock. He's here to investigate about your attackers." Mycroft explained.  
Lestrade stepped forward, a kind smile lighting up his face, "It's not usually my division, but I do what I can for an old friend."  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow to his older brother for an explanation, "Greg Lestrade worked with me for a little while I was in Wales."

He nodded and instead focused on the cup with the lid and a straw sticking out, sitting on the bedside table. His older brother followed his gaze and got up, bringing it over and taking off the mask.

He choked a little while drinking and a coughing fit over took him, his aching body straining painfully under the effort. Sherlock's eyes rolled back and he ran out of energy to even cough, his body relaxing on the bed again, though struggling to breathe. The mask was put back on and voices came in and out of hearing.

Eventually he just broke and felt tears prick his eyes, his hand reached out for his brother, like he used to do when he was younger and upset.

The hand was taken and tears ran down his face, Mycroft came closer, pressing his face beside Sherlock's cheek as sobs overtook him.

He heard the door being opened and closed, which probably suggested Lestrade leaving, Sherlock allowed the emotions he'd been keeping in for months let out. And the brothers stayed that way for hours, in each others embrace.

It was a week later when D.I. Lestrade met Sherlock again, who was nearly ready to leave hospital, sat up in bed, seemingly sketching something. Apparently, from Mycroft, he'd been doing that a lot recently.

He took a seat beside the bed, "How are you doing Sherlock?"  
A grunt was his reply, probably meaning "fine". His brow furrowed in concentration on whatever he was drawing.

"Is it alright if I asked you about what happened last week?" Greg started. Sherlock gave him a look which caused a sigh from the older man, "Yes, I know you don't talk. I was thinking you could write stuff down."

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh as he opened the last page in his sketch book and looked to Lestrade.

"Right, well. How many people were involved and how old, do you think, were they?"  
He wrote down the number, 5 before writing 14/15 next to it. Lestrade nodded and jotted it down himself.  
"Did you know any of them?"

The pencil hesitated in his hands, John, kept flashing in his mind.

Should he or shouldn't he? Biting his lip, he wrote down the name John Watson. The D.I. copied this down as well.

Twenty minutes later, filled with questions, Greg Lestrade stood, "I think that's enough to go on, thank you Sherlock. Now, before I go, is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"  
_Dad. Child abuse._

Sherlock shook his head.

_Idiot._

He smiled and left, leaving Sherlock alone. Mycroft had to go off somewhere, though still in the hospital close by.  
A little tired of drawing, he closed the sketch book and instead popped in earphones from his hardly used iPod, calming instrumental music pouring through the ear buds.

With his eyes closed, his senses were a little muted, but he more the slight click of the door closing behind someone, opening his eyes Sherlock suddenly ripped the ear phones out and jumped up.

His father stood in front of the door, rage lined in his features.

_Mycroft. _His mind yelled. His throat was dry.  
Sherlock took off the pulse clip on his finger and pressed his back as close to the wall as he could, he still had an IV in his arm.

The beast of a man started coming over, "What the hell did you do to get here? You had my wife in tears."  
_My mother._

"I bet you took those stupid drugs again, you think just because we're a rich family you can just go off and afford private rooms, a detective inspector for some made up reason and what ever the hell else."  
_Great excuse.  
_"You're a failure to the family, a disgusting, useless nothing." He snarled and suddenly leaped forward.

Sherlock raised his arms in defence and his dad ripped out the IV with such force Sherlock cried out, blood trickled down his arm. He was backhanded into the wall next to him, stinging his other cuts, biting back another cry he turned to face his father again.

_How did they let this brute in? Mycroft should have been asked about this. He probably flashed his credentials._

Blocking a punch, he tried to push the man away, kicking at him.  
_Mycroft!  
_A palm struck above his eye and Sherlock staggered a little, the IV needle was suddenly in his fathers hands, who then slashed across his arm.  
"_Mycroft!"_ Sherlock screamed, he clutched his arm as something wrapped around his neck and tightened. _Earphones._

He slid down the wall, pupils blown wide, unable to breath, the cords kept tightening, his father a raging mess. Spit started to froth at the corner of his lips, eyes beginning to roll upwards, his lungs were burning, his throat hurt, he couldn't breathe. He went weak, giving up any sort of fight.

Watching the ceiling, he heard a door bang open, shouts and yells, a light flick on, but by then his eyes slid shut, not breathing even when the cord was untangled from around his neck.

"Get off me!" Siger Holmes yelled in fury at the D.I. cuffing his hands behind his back.  
Doctors rushed in, checking Sherlock's vital signs before picking him up and putting him on the bed, beginning compressions. Mycroft watched from a distance, paled, hands in a prayer like position against his lips.

"Clear." Was sounded, and the pads pressed into Sherlock's now bare chest, his body jolted, nothing happened.  
"Charge to 200."  
"Clear."  
Again, this time, a faint beep appeared on the screen. The doctor placed a mask over Sherlock's mouth, checking through his vital signs again, flashing a light in his eye.

He came back over to Mycroft, "He should be alright, just keep a watch, he should be fine."  
Thanking him, Mycroft then went over to his brother, the nurse getting him comfortable. Sweat covered Sherlock's face, a bleeding gash on his right arm which the other doctor had begun patching up, a bleeding hole where the IV had originally been had already been tended to and a red mark across his face.

Mycroft sighed, he never seemed to get better.

"Mycroft. Are you just going to ignore your father?" Mr Holmes snarled.  
He said nothing in reply, instead kept watching his brothers chest, fearing it would stop moving.  
"Mycroft!"  
He whipped around, coming up close to his father, "I will _not_ speak to you after you killed my brother, he was _dead_ for seconds there."  
"He killed 500 people."  
"No, he got 500 people killed, but then again, he was hardly 13, had a gun pressed to his head and was tied to a chair after being whacked in the head and kidnapped off the street. I'm not sure he could have done much else."  
Siger continued to sneer and scowl at his son.

"Mr Holmes, I'm placing you under arrest for assault and attempted murder charges. You are to remain silent, anything said can be used against you." D.I. Lestrade ordered, pulling the man out of the room.

The door shut and Mycroft turned just as the final doctor was leaving, he nodded and thanked him before continuing to sit beside his brother and wait for him to awake, once again.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Thank you SO much to the reviews. They made my day, I was literally clapping and jumping about singing, "Happy" XD|  
Keep them up, they help me so much.  
This chapter felt a little weird to write, so bear with me._**

* * *

_The wind moaned through the trees, a light fog squatting on the ground and dappled sunlight tinted the leaves red._

_A small boy, probably around six, sat upon a man's shoulders, looking in awe at the birds and the butterflies._

_"Daddy." The child asked, hands rested back on his head.  
"Yes?"  
"When I grow up...I wanna be a butterfly."  
A deep, rumbling laugh emitted from the man, "Of course Sherly."  
"Na! I will! You watch, I'll be a pretty butterfly." A little Sherlock cried._

_- 3 Years After_

_"Myc-ey. Myc-ey!" Sherlock called, running from the door over to his brother who sat reading a book, he looked down to the curly haired boy.  
"Yes Sherlock?"  
"Look what I drew at school!" The proud nine year old held up a rather realistic drawing of a gold and black butterfly.  
"That's very good Sherlock." Mycroft leaned down and ruffled his brothers hair with a smile, the boy then darted off to find his parents._

_He found his Mummy and Daddy in the kitchen, "Look what I drew at school!" He held it up again and the two adults looked down at it.  
"Mm dull." His father said.  
"Mm dull." Sherlock copied in a sarcastic tone.  
His mother looked sternly at her husband before turning back to Sherlock, "That's a very beautiful picture, Sherly. How about I help you put it up on your wall?"  
"Okay!"_

_- 2 Years After_

_Sherlock dumped his school bag by the door, "School's boring."  
"Clearly." Mycroft replied, looking up from his newspaper, eyebrow raised.  
"Everyone's stupid."  
"I warned you."  
He poked his tongue out at his older brother before turning as their mother joined them in the room, "We have a family dinner tonight remember."  
Sherlock groaned, "Dull, boring, predictable." And dropped into a chair._

_Father, who had been across the room, smirked behind the book he was reading._

_- 1 Year After_

_"I thought you said Highschool would be harder." Sherlock complained as he entered the living room.  
Mycroft sighed, "What did you do this time?"  
"How do you know I did something?"  
"You're complaining, and knowing you, you probably did the same at school and ticked off a few teachers."  
He sighed dramatically, "You know me too well."_

_"Well, what'd you do?"  
"Corrected a few teachers, told the Principle her husband was having an affair, which probably didn't help my cause after the reason of being there was a detention. And told the class in Science they were all stupid idiots."_

_His older brother closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, "You don't do that Sherlock."  
"Why not? Dad does."  
"Dad's...older."  
"What does being older have anything to do with it?"_

_"Don't take him as a role model, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock shrugged and went up to his room._

_- Two months before the kidnapping_

_"You're an idiot." Sherlock's father growled.  
"Excuse me?" Sherlock looked up.  
"You got a C in Science and Maths."  
"Oh that, that's more behavioural. I'm smarter than the teachers there. Ignore that."  
"Then fix your behaviour, I don't want people seeing my family as stupid."_

_Sherlock frowned, "We aren't."  
"People will think differently if you keep this up."_

_"Righto." He got up and continued into the kitchen._

_Mycroft walked over, "What the hell was that?"  
"What?" Siger raised an eyebrow.  
"You can't seriously be teaching Sherlock that."  
"What is so bad?"  
"He's going to grow up being an arrogant smart arse, always having to be right and the best at everything. That's not going to get him far."  
"Got me far. Now stop questioning my methods." His father turned and stalked off._

_"What the hell happened to the old you." Mycroft muttered._

_- After the kidnapping_

_Sherlock, after retreating to his room when Mycroft went to inform their parents of what had happened, heard raised voices in the kitchen and went to the top of the stairs, sitting down as not to be seen and listened in._

_"I don't want him in this house." His father yelled.  
"I don't like it either, but that's a little too far." Mycroft argued.  
"He's an arrogant fool, I don't wish to look at him."  
"And who's fault is that?"_

_Father's voice lowered, "Don't you dare turn this back on me."  
"Well its true, if you hadn't let him grow up under your bad influence, he wouldn't be like this!"  
"My bad influence? Look at you, you're too soft on him!"  
"Oh, but hitting him isn't hard enough?"  
"He needs reining in."  
"He isn't an animal! He's a human being and you treat him horribly."_

_Seemingly ignoring what his son just said, Siger then announced, "Get him out of this house."  
"No."  
"I will not speak or look upon him. Get him out."  
"Its his home as much as yours."  
"He is a fail to humanity. Death would suit him better."  
"Don't you dare say that. You're horrible!" Mycroft's voice grew louder, out raged._

_Sherlock sunk lower to the ground, feeling tears form in his eyes._

_Not wanting to hear more, he ran to his room and locked the door. All he could think about was the last sentence his father said, he felt the cold ring of a gun pressing against his temple from hours ago and wondered if he should have let it go bang._

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, body jolting, noises smothered his ears and lights pierced his eyes. He felt out of breath, something covered his nose and mouth, little things were jabbed into his skin. He didn't like this.

"Sherlock." A voice to the left rang in his ears, that wasn't Mycroft. Where was Mycroft.

His vision cleared and he coughed, ears popping. He was still in hospital. Sherlock didn't like hospitals any more, he hated them. He wanted to leave.

Turning his head, he saw John sat where Mycroft usually sat. Panic started buzzing in his chest, where was Mycroft?

"Hey..." John started.  
Pulling himself away from John as far as he could, he took off the mask. "Where's Mycroft?"  
"I think we went to go talk to someone."  
"Why are you here?"  
"I came to explain, I-"  
"Go away."  
"What?"  
"Go away!" Sherlock started yelling. "Get away from me!"  
"Sherlock, wait. Its okay." John tried, standing up.

"No, no. Go away. Get out." He wailed. Where the hell was Mycroft?

A voice to his left, "Mycroft's not here Sherlock."  
Turning his head, he saw his father, standing by the wall. Sherlock blinked, feeling a sweat rising. "What the hell-"  
"What Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, confused.  
"John hurt you Sherlock." The older man's voice rang through his head.  
"He made you want to kill yourself."

Sherlock squinted, not feeling right.  
"Kill him."

He blinked a few times, things going a little blurry.

"Sherlock!" John called again, things snapped into right again. His father was no longer there.

_Hallucination? _He felt so confused.

But then John was touching his arm, Sherlock jolting, taking out the IV cord and standing up, staggering.

"Whoa, Sherlock. Calm down." He tried, raising his hands in defence.

Sherlock rushed forward, grabbing John by the collar and pinning him to the wall. "I hate you!"  
"Sherlock, stop- please."  
"You hurt me!"  
"I'm sorry, I didn't-"  
"You made me try and kill myself!"  
"Wait, what- Sherlock, stop!"

Then there were hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. Sherlock snarled and spat at the boy in front of him.

The hands tightened, pulling him over to the other side of the bed. "Sherlock." A soft voice said.  
Mycroft.  
"Sherlock, calm yourself."  
"I don't want him here!" He yelled, kicking.  
"Yes, I understand that. John, would you mind?" Mycroft asked, gesturing to the door.  
He nodded hesitantly, swallowing and walked out, closing it behind him.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said softly again.  
"What?"  
"You're talking."

Time seemed to slow down, Sherlock blinked a few times. "I am?"  
"Obviously."  
"I don't...what?"  
"Dad's in jail." Mycroft suddenly said.  
_So I was hallucinating._

"I can, I can talk now?"  
"Yes. He's not going to hurt you."

John stood awkwardly outside the door to the private room, unsure of what to do after that experience. He turned, looking down the corridor, deciding to go get some water. He passed a man in a brown coat, who stopped and turned.  
"Hey."  
John stopped, confused and turned around. "Yes?"  
"Were you just in Room 256?"  
"Yeah. I was, I was visiting Sherlock." He stuttered.  
"Sorry, what's your name?"  
"...John Watson, why?"

The silver haired man walked over, "Could I talk to you for a few minutes?"  
"Ah, who are you?"  
"D.I. Lestrade."

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock who was now sitting up in bed, "You really need to stop taking out your IV."  
"I don't need it."

He sighed, "I'm not going to even ask why you acted like that to John. I'm sure in due time, things will explain themselves."  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  
"But anyway, hungry?"  
"Not particularly."  
"Sherlock you have hardly eaten in three days."  
"So?"  
"You need to eat."  
"What for?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft sat down beside the bed, "Just come and get something to eat with me."  
"Fine." Sherlock, smirking, got off the bed before frowning.  
"What is it?"  
"Must I wear this?" He gestured to the hospital gown.  
"I have clothes for you in my bag."  
"Give me them."  
"Give me them _please_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, holding out his hand for them. Mycroft dug them out of the bag he kept beside the chair and passed them over.

_"Thank you_. Now turn around."  
"I'm your brother."  
"Exactly."  
Throwing a look at his suddenly annoying younger brother, he turned as Sherlock tore off the hospital gown and instead pulled on a purple shirt and black jeans.

"Okay, lets go."

Mycroft turned and followed his brother out the door, "I missed your voice."  
"Oh god, don't go all motherly on me now."  
"I've been motherly on you for two years."  
"Yeah it got annoying."

Raising an eyebrow, he muttered to himself, "And what happened to _you _suddenly?"

"Something amazing." Sherlock retorted, over hearing his brother.

"I think I liked you better when you didn't talk."  
"Damn shame."  
"You're really chatty, really suddenly."  
"That's what happens after two years of silence."  
"Its a bit of a shock."  
"I thought you said you missed my voice?"  
"Starting to grow tired of it now."  
"That's nice."

Mycroft decided he didn't really like teenagers.

When they arrived in the dining room for patients Sherlock spotted John and Lestrade sitting at a table n the corner, he scowled. "Can we go now?"  
"We just got here Sherlock, now take a seat." Mycroft ordered.  
Sighing dramatically he sat down on the cold, metal chair beside a small round table as Mycroft went to get them food from the buffet.

He drummed his fingers on the table, bored already and not liking that John was nearby. At the moment Sherlock still wished to rip out his throat.

Instead, he resorted to death glaring at him from the other side of the room, smirking inside when John glanced and quickly look away, looking a little afraid.

"No need to be immature, Sherlock brother." Mycroft noted his glare and took a seat in front of him, blocking Sherlock's view. He put a plate of steaming rice and meat in front of his younger brother.

"You expect me to eat this?"  
"Most of it, yes."

Gripping his fork, he moodily shoved the food in his mouth as Mycroft began talking.  
"Now I'm curious, you stopped talking because you were afraid to possibly letting something out again, yet when father goes in jail, you find it safe to speak again."

"I'll leave you to your deductions."  
He leaned forward, "I don't think it was about giving away anything. I think it was about father, for whatever reasons. Maybe worried to say the wrong thing in front of him or- Oh."  
Sherlock suddenly found his food rather interesting.

"Ah. You noticed how much he was changing you so you shut yourself up after the...incident, covering it up with that instead. Am I correct?"  
"Have no idea what you're on about."  
"Everything he said, you reflected and started becoming rather similar to him. I suppose you grew to not like it or just noticed how bad he actually was and it sickened you."

"Again, I'll leave you to your deductions."

"You used to be a snobby smart arse."  
"That's nice."  
"Now you're your own arrogant, narcissistic smart arse."  
"Lovely."  
Mycroft smiled and sat back in his chair, "Mummy will be happy."  
"Will she now?"  
"Quite."  
"I thought she hated me."  
"She hated the situation, there's a difference."  
"I hardly see her any more."

His older brother shrugged delicately, "Being in our family would do that to you."

There was a long moment of silence and then, "What happens with school?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well...I'll go there. How do I...I don't know. I'm talking again, that'll come as a surprise to people I suppose, but then..."  
"You're going to be like when you started high school."  
"Yeah."

"Oh they're all idiots, you'll be fine just don't piss off certain kids."  
Sherlock laughed then stopped.  
"What?" Mycroft questioned.  
"They're coming over here, why they coming over here?"  
John followed Lestrade over to the table, stopping to the side of it, Sherlock continued his icy glare.

Lestrade cleared his throat, "Sherlock, you can stop death staring John any time now."  
"I know." He replied cooly, not stopping.  
Sighing, he went on, "I talked to John, since you wrote down his name as who was part of the group that attacked who."  
"You wrote down my name?" John suddenly raged.  
"You stood there and watched me get beaten?" Sherlock mocked his tone, this made him go silent, all the while fumming.

"Alright, _girls_. Calm down. John explained the situation rather well. If you can be mature enough to allow John to explain then Mycroft and I will leave you to it."  
Sherlock crossed his arms, "Fine."  
"Good. If you need anything...Well, we're just over there." Lestrade pointed to the table at the back and the two men walked off, standing a little close to eachother.

Sherlock frowned, "I think my brother's gay."  
"What?" John asked, taking a seat.  
"Nothing." His voice snapped back to cold and he looked at John with a steel gaze, "Well? Come on, I don't have all day."  
Seemingly biting back a retort, he began his explination.

"It was lunch, you weren't at school, I was with my usual group of...friends. They came up as soon as they saw me, questioned me about apparently seeing me hang out with you. Being me, I still wasn't ready to..stand up."  
"Surprise, surprise." Sherlock muttered.  
"And I made up some excuse even I can't remember, they didn't seem to buy it, they started asking where I hanged out with you. I continued to deny it. But-"  
"Of course-"  
"-they kept pushing, then threatened to ruin my school life by spreading word that I was your best friend."  
Sherlock sniffed.  
"If that happened I'd get bullied and my mum would send me to a different school instantly, I didn't want that so I let in and sorta..."  
"Showed them my most private spot."  
"...Yeah."  
Sherlock leaned back, "John, you sound like a girly twelve year old. Oh, but they threatened to spread a rumour that you had a best friend that was some unpopular guy. Oh boo hoo, grow up. I'm a human being, you said it yourself. You had basically two weeks to get them to shove off yet you did nothing."

"I know."  
"You know?"  
"Yes, Sherlock. I know. I know that you went through shit."  
"No you don't."  
John looked up, "I don't?"  
"You don't and didn't know half the shit I went through. So scratch that, but go on."  
Swallowing, he glanced away for a moment before continuing. "But anyway, I went to Mycroft straight after and for the record, after I went to Mycroft I did actually go to my now-not-friends. Yeah I got a punch, but it was worth it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking up, confused. "Worth it?"  
"Yeah, to help you, to befriend you. To make a difference, I mean, that says a lot more than hanging around with some petty fourteen year olds who think they're "boss."  
"I don't understand."  
"Do you know anything about emotion...human nature?"  
"Probably not."

John smirked.

"So, uh. Are you still pissed or am I forgiven?"  
"We sound like young girls making up."  
"We do, don't we?"  
"But anyway. I'm still pissed at you, but." Sherlock got up, John frowned and followed.  
Then suddenly Sherlock struck a fist into his face, he hit the floor, clutching his nose.

"You're forgiven."


	7. Teaser and Author Note

**_I'm so sorry if you thought this was a chapter, but I will be giving you a teaser for the next chapter because I know it sucks when you get excited but its just an authors note._**

Yes I am still writing this, I've just had a very busy week, and I've had Season 3 of Sherlock, so, give me a break XD. Plus my computer got a virus. Then my laptop got a virus, so I can only use my brothers computer when he's not on. Its annoying.

**_I will give you a chapter very soon, just hang in there, I love all your reviews and please keep them up, they really make my day and help SO much, I love you all! :)_**

**_Teaser-_**

It was cold when Sherlock opened his eyes again, having not noticed he had slipped away into thinking and then into his Mind Palace for about two hours. John was still there, sat across from him, though now he had a sketch book in hand and a pencil. _His _sketch book which he had used at the hospital.

"Oh, welcome back to the land of the living." John remarked, glancing up from his work.  
"Is that my sketch book?"Sherlock inquired, tilting his head.  
"Yes, it is. You're rather good."  
"I know. Why are you using it?"  
"Got an idea."  
"Did you know, what are you drawing?"

John grinned cheekily to himself causing the boy in front of him to narrow his eyes, Sherlock crawled over and took a seat beside John, his widening slightly in surprise.

"Me?"  
"_Yes_."  
"You decided to draw me?"  
"Yep." He replied, popping the p.  
"While I was unaware?"  
"Are you trying to make this sound like I used you?"  
"The rules of it are similar, yes."  
"Rules?"  
"There should be rules- Damn, you're rather good too." Sherlock eventually commented, looking in awe at the very realistic sketch of himself in his thinking pose.

_**Well there you are, I hope that satisfied you enough till the actual chapter is given. :)**_


End file.
